


Destruction

by DizzyPunch



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Needs Therapy, Angst and Feels, Crying, Desperation, Fantasizing, Fear of love, Feelings Realization, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, One-Sided Relationship, POV Akechi Goro, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Fantasy, Sexuality, Unrequited Lust, falling in love is painful :(, fear of intimacy, honestly it's more of a character study than just pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29289141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyPunch/pseuds/DizzyPunch
Summary: "With the clarity of a photograph, the mental slideshow conjures up those sharp grey eyes behind the glasses; the elegant fingers; the warm inch of skin between white turtleneck and jaw; and then - the thought is sickening - the tender pink curve of Kurusu’s mouth."The trauma of developing a crush awakens Akechi’s deepest fears and desires.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> This could probably do with a little more editing but I need to get it out my system so I can focus on university stuff. That said, please enjoy! I both love and hate making Akechi suffer lol
> 
> Also, quick warning: there's no explicit non-con but Akechi's fantasies do head in that general direction. I've also added an underage warning since this takes place during canon (although Akechi is already 18 at this point, since his birthday is June 2nd). I want everyone to be safe so please, please don't read if that makes you uncomfortable.

_“Always the Demon fidgets here beside me  
And swims around, impalpable as air:  
I drink him, feel him burn the lungs inside me  
With endless evil longings and despair.”_  
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire  
  
  


It’s late when Shinichi Yoshizawa leaves the studio in Akasaka-mitsuke. Insects flit about the fluorescent lights of the underground parking lot, and the early summer air is tense with humidity. Being a director, Yoshizawa is accustomed to leaving later than everyone else and as he steps out of the elevator, he’s surprised to realise their young rising star, Goro Akechi, is still here. Keys in hand, Yoshizawa hesitates at his car and turns to where Akechi is carefully checking the tyres of his bicycle. The fluorescent lights do nothing for Akechi’s fair complexion but aside from that, he is remarkably put together for someone who has spent all day at school and all evening in front of a live audience. It can’t be a good life for a high schooler, Yoshizawa muses, but he pushes the thought away.

“Akechi-kun, it’s late. Let me give you a ride.”

Yoshizawa knows the answer before he asks but he can’t help feeling protective of someone a similar age to his own daughter. Akechi straightens up, clips his cycle helmet under his chin, and flashes that perfect reproduction smile.

“Oh, Yoshizawa-san, thank you very much. But I prefer to cycle.”

The middle-aged man glances at Akechi over his glasses. There’s no point arguing but still-- “You live near Kichijoji, right? That’s quite a cycle… It’s really no problem at all.”

Once more, the smile but this time a little strained. Or did Yoshizawa imagine that? Again, Akechi resists and Yoshizawa, reluctant to push it, gives an involuntary sigh of resignation and opens his car door. 

“Well. Get home safely, then, and I’ll see you on Wednesday. Thank you for your hard work today.” 

“And you, Yoshizawa-san.”

With a brief wave from the car window and something suspiciously like a concerned glance, Yoshizawa is at last gone. Goro waits until he can no longer see the red glare of the car's rear lights before he lets his shoulders slump. The train would be quicker and a lift from the director quicker still but an hour’s cycle is better than half an hour’s awkward conversation. He’s exhausted and mentally overstimulated and just plain grumpy. He doesn’t want to smile anymore. 

He checks his phone quickly for anything from Shido, reminds himself that Shido rarely (if ever) texts, then sets off through the streets. Tokyo swells under the oppression of the humidity; it feels like pedalling through tar and the urban stench of car exhaust and cigarette smoke clings to him like a sticky film. The thought of food right now is nauseating but he knows he should eat, so he quickly picks up onigiri and a can of iced coffee from Family Mart, rushing through the transaction before anyone recognises him. There are times when Goro's appetite for recognition and praise is insatiable, times he seems to exist only for the admiration of talk show hosts and the vapid worship of teenage girls, but now he just wants to be himself. He just wants to sleep.

He’s felt out of sorts since his commute that morning. Being so busy hasn’t afforded him the time to think about it but he doesn’t particularly want to start now. He focuses on the physicality of cycling instead - the resistance of the pedals, the gentle breeze on his face, the clamminess of his hands in his gloves - and although when he eventually arrives home he is no less irritable, he's at least exhausted enough that sleep should come easily. Outside, he locks his bike in the rack, then unlocks his door and kicks off his shoes with uncharacteristic carelessness. Instinctively, he checks his phone again for anything from Shido, for that little addictive spike of dopamine that comes with being remembered. But, of course, Shido doesn’t need him right now so there’s nothing. 

Dumping the convenience store plastic bag in the tiny kitchen that’s used primarily as a storage space, he quickly pulls himself free of his clothes. He forgoes a bath - it's too late and too hot, and he can't relax anyway. Instead, he showers as quickly as is hygienic, pushing his mind away from his own body and focusing on it only as a task to be dispassionately crossed off a checklist, like sweeping the floor or cleaning a window or murdering someone. Afterwards, he sits for a moment in a towel, rubbing his hair dry, then changes quickly into pajamas when he can no longer stand the thought of his own nakedness. 

He tries to eat the onigiri but the rice sticks uncomfortably in his mouth, and the canned coffee is too sweet and too fake. He switches the television on. Switches the television off. His mind is like a swamp. It’s unbearable, this unproductivity, this frustration, this lack of control. But it’s just the humidity and his own exhaustion, he assures himself and then assures himself again, as if the repetition makes it more believable. It’s been a long week. That’s all.

And the only answer to that is sleep, he decides, and collapses onto the meticulously tidy bed that his more disciplined, more likeable self made that morning. Out of habit, he spends a while on his phone, browsing aimlessly through what people are saying about him on social media but all of it feels hollow and none of it is _enough_ , and even the smallest criticisms stab harder than usual. Then he checks again if there’s anything from Shido, anything to make him feel useful and worthwhile. That is, he tells himself that’s what he’s checking for and he almost believes it, but now his fingers have led him to his recent conversations and-- ah, there it is. The scab his tired mind has been picking at all day.

It’s not that his meeting that morning with Akira Kurusu on the Ginza line had any particular importance: it was, like always, a short exchange of pleasantries. And yet Goro can barely remember what they spoke about, because all he remembers is Kurusu’s appearance. He lets his mind wander over that now, the messy hair, the glasses, the casual slouch-- and Goro’s treacherous heart starts to beat a little faster, a little more urgently. Mouth dry, he does what he’s been resisting all day and brings up Kurusu’s contact information. It’s normal for friends-- ah, he means _acquaintances_ \-- to message each other but his stomach flutters at the snatched glance of a profile picture. “Do you want to” he writes, then deletes it. “How would you feel,” he writes, then deletes it. “I’m alone now,” he writes. God, that’s fucking stupid. He deletes it and then rewrites it; puts the phone down; picks it up; deletes the message again; then in a fit of frustration pitches the phone across the room. It clatters hard onto the laminate flooring and with a grunt of frustration, Goro throws himself back into his pillows, where he lies staring angrily up at the ceiling. 

His heart is thudding uncomfortably now. Each passing second makes it harder to ignore. There is something he’s forbidden himself from noticing: the hot, urgent manifestation of that tight knot that’s been clawing at his insides all day. He can feel, with a stab of disgust, the growing strain of his arousal against the resilient seam line of his pants. He forces his mind away from it and to any unarousing thought he can summon, willing himself to sleep, just sleep, damn it. But ten minutes pass with no change. It's no use.

Giving in, Goro allows his hand to trail downwards across his stomach. He finds himself harder than he expected, and his own touch through the thin cotton is both a relief and agony. He convinces himself that if he just took care of this - another dispassionate task - he might be able to sleep. With a sigh, he struggles himself free of the waistband, feels the sharp nip of the AC on his burning hot skin, and tentatively allows his hands to get to work.

He begins slowly and methodically, a few long strokes from base to tip with a loose hand, but it’s too tantalising and his grip grows more self-assured as he settles into a familiar pace. There’s a stifled sense of relief that comes with each stroke, working away at a frustration that has been suppressed since far longer than just this morning. It feels good… of course it feels good, but he can’t allow himself to see this as anything more than functional. If he gets this done, he can sleep.

It’s hard to maintain that neutrality for long, though, and Goro is too worn down by frustration to fend off the thoughts that have been stalking the periphery of his mind all day. He finds himself wandering back to that stupid messy hair and those stupid unnecessary glasses and that stupid, stupid voice; and with each thought and each motion of his hand he climbs a little further into the maw of his desire. He’s no stranger to touching himself, he muses, realising how incredibly hard he is, how wet his hand is with precum, but he's never really been attracted to anyone before, let alone a…

No. This doesn't mean anything about him. In self-defense, Goro’s mind raises another wall. This isn’t attraction. This is humidity and stress and tiredness. What kind of idiot would mistake this for attraction? But the jaws of the beast have snapped shut around him and now he can’t look away from the Kurusu of his mind’s eye. With the clarity of a photograph, the mental slideshow conjures up those sharp grey eyes behind the glasses; the elegant fingers; the warm inch of skin between white turtleneck and jaw; and then - the thought is sickening - the tender pink curve of Kurusu’s mouth.

Goro’s stomach flutters. The pace of his hand quickens. He can’t fight, can’t look away from the fantasy. His whole body is burning hot and his hands, sticky with sweat and precum, are making a shameful wet sound with each movement. He throws his head back into the pillows, taunted by his own pathetic, barely stifled groans but powerless to stop them. He can’t fight any more. Cheeks flushed, mouth wet, vision blurred, he finally gives in, grinding frantically into his own grasping hand, yearning instead for Akira's fingers or Akira's mouth or… dear God, _anything_ , so long as it's Akira.

Everything is raw and painful and new in Goro’s woeful inexperience of human touch and yet the thoughts seem so vivid, so real. Every sense is alive with the imagined presence of Akira, the sound of him, the smell of him, the taste of him. Goro wants to stop, he wants to return to the brief, sterilized, anonymous fantasies that got him off before now, but that black-haired bastard has embedded himself like a barb. God, it hurts. I hate it. _It hurts._

And yet it's irresistible. His hand is beginning to cramp but he doesn't notice. He’s moving faster, harder, and his mind cycles through every sick thing it can summon. One moment, Akira hovers above Goro, using his weight to squeeze too tight at Goro's neck. Next, Goro has Akira against a wall, and Akira's pretty face is bloodied and bruised, and he’s moaning like a whore as Goro fucks him. Next, Goro is pressing a gun to Akira's temple while Akira's wet lips are tight around his cock and he's staring up at Goro -- with hate? With lust? Anything will do-- from behind a beautiful fan of lashes. Oh, Goro never wants it to end. His breathing is ragged and his heart is pounding like a wild, frenzied thing. Every desperate pulse of his blood is yearning for recognition and praise, each wet motion of his hand is screaming “Look at me, Akira, look at me, look at me, look at me.” Look at this naked, empty thing that is me. 

But the fantasy is itinerant and Goro, ensnared like an animal, is powerless to where it drags him. Now Akira’s hands are gripping at Goro’s long hair, tugging his head back hard so his neck is painfully exposed... but then it’s changing, mutating, becoming something even more horrifying. He can’t stop. It’s a picture of destruction and he can't tear his eyes away. Every fiber of him is dedicated to the fantasy and, paralysed, he watches helplessly as Akira’s forceful hands soften, and what was once fierce and erotic dissolves into something grotesquely tender. Goro is scared. He's so scared. He’s lost in an unknown place, drowning in the deep end of a fantasy so alien. Akira is holding him now, laying beside him, limbs entwined, caressing his goosebumped arms. He can feel warm breath on his face, the playful tickle of hair, and he catches the fleeting glimpse of an earnest smile-- _oh god_ \-- feels the press of a flushed cheek to his own cheek, hears a mumble of affectionate words in that irresistible voice-- _ahh_ \-- the brush of soft lips, _oh god, oh god, please--!_

In this frantic, untameable fantasy, Akira is kissing him.

Goro's pale chest heaves and he climaxes with a desperate sound he barely recognises as his own voice. Hot cum shoots shamefully across his hands and his stomach. For a while, it doesn’t seem to stop and he is horrified by each white splatter as if he were watching his own brains spraying against the wall. 

Seconds pass, then minutes. Then, through the shock that grips his whole body, comes the creeping realisation that something he has kept locked inside himself forever has come undone. All around him the fantasy shatters. He is alone. He is completely alone. Beyond the blood pumping in his ears and his ragged breathing is only the low drone of the AC unit and the hum of midnight traffic outside. He’s lying there, wet and sticky, with his pants around his ankles and his shirt pulled up to his neck, every vulnerability and every shame unveiled to the world like a corpse on a mortician’s slab. Where there should be afterglow is only a cold, bright, scrutinous spotlight. As the hot throb subsides, the messy thrill of orgasm is taken over by a beast far darker and heavier and harder to fight. And under the weight of everything dirty and guilty and bad and wrong that he feels, Goro Akechi collapses inwards.

Like his climax, there’s nothing he can do to hold back the tears. His stomach twists; his heart lurches; and he feels acutely the sharp needle of loneliness and desperation that his idiotic carnal weakness has allowed inside. The tears burst out of him in violent fits of wailing, in the ineffable language of a human heart breaking again and again. With each wail, he longs to claw free of his body and his memories, he longs to be the normal person-- the _cherished_ person-- he knows he can never be. For a long while he stays there, sobbing into his sticky hands until both voice and tears run dry and all he can do is shake pathetically. He's let himself indulge in feelings that don't belong to people like him. He’s allowed himself to come undone. He's never felt so naked.

Hours might have passed then. He isn’t sure if he slipped into sleep but, in the early hours of the morning, he finally unpeels himself from his damp sheets and forces himself up. He catches a glimpse at his own wretched self in the mirror, hair matted, face red with tears and body red with fading arousal, but he doesn’t want to recognise that pathetic thing looking back at him with puffy eyes. In his mind, he forces it away, makes a stranger of it.

He is still sore and humiliated, but he’s also Goro Akechi and with that realisation comes the familiar anger and resolve. He shoves his sheets and pajamas into the washing machine (dispassionately), showers again (dispassionately), and vows to never let his mind return to that dark, empty place of yearning, that place where he keeps the key to his own destruction. It’s easy now to distance himself, to look back on that weak creature of a few hours ago with scorn and ridicule. The fading humiliation grants him the clarity to remember that these are not feelings that belong to someone like _him_. No, he’s powerful, he's talented, he’s special, he tells himself, and he’s certainly not some pathetic dog that pines for its master’s touch. And so he pushes it all away, away, away, to the deepest place he can reach, and the thought of that creature ever resurfacing fills him with anger, with dread, with nausea. 

Because it’s a disgusting thought, after all, that he might ever deserve something as depraved as a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to create something a bit _visceral_ , and I'm not sure I've achieved that but I did enjoy writing this! I'm a bit shy (and relatively new) when it comes to writing fanfic, so I really appreciate all kudos and comments ♥ 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
